Lance Seraphis was never one to rush. Life, after all, was a slow unraveling, a carefully measured journey best experienced one page at a time. As twilight unfurled its dusky mantle over the city, he meandered home from the library, the familiar weight of a leather-bound tome pressed against his side like a faithful companion. The autumn air, sharp as a paper cut, nipped at his cheeks, carrying with it the petrichor of rain-kissed concrete and the distant symphony of city life winding down for the evening.

His keen eyes, veiled behind dark-rimmed glasses, darted from shadow to shadow as he walked. Not out of fear, but out of habit—an unconscious ritual born from years of observing the world's minutiae. Lance noticed everything—the ephemeral dance of a faltering streetlamp, the whispered susurration of leaves stirred by passing vehicles, the plaintive howl of a dog echoing through the urban canyons two streets over. He cataloged the world like he cataloged the pages of his beloved books: meticulously, thoughtfully, always searching for meaning in the mundane.

But tonight felt... different.

The streets, usually pulsing with vitality even at this hour, had fallen into an unnatural hush. Too quiet. The kind of silence that prickled at the edges of your consciousness, whispering that something in the fabric of reality had shifted ever so slightly. Lance adjusted his grip on the book, feeling the worn leather beneath his fingers, and quickened his pace. His apartment beckoned from just a few blocks away, promising the comfort of Earl Grey and an unexplored chapter.

As he passed under the flickering aureole of a streetlamp, he felt it—that primal sensation of being watched, of eyes boring into his back with predatory intent. His steps faltered for just a moment before he forced himself to continue. It's nothing, he assured himself. Just your imagination conjuring phantoms from the shadows.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow detached itself from the darkness, coalescing into human form with liquid grace.

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A man stepped into his path, emerging from the shadows like ink bleeding through paper. Streetlight glinted off the knife in his hand with an almost musical ping.

"Hand it over," the mugger growled, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against metal. Each word carried the weight of ancient malice.

Lance's throat constricted, but he forced himself to speak. "Look, I don't want any trouble." His voice emerged steadier than he felt. "It's just books—nothing valuable to someone like you."

A dry, rasping chuckle escaped the mugger's throat. "Someone like me?" The words dripped with dark amusement. "You don't know anything about what I am, boy. Or what you are."

"What's that supposed to-"

"Shut up." The command cracked like a whip. "You talk just like her, you know that? Always trying to reason your way out."

Lance's mind stuttered over the words. "Like who?"

The mugger's lips twisted into something that might have been a smile in another lifetime. "Your mother... Charlotte." He savored the name like a bitter wine. "Such a shame about her accident, wasn't it?"

The world seemed to tilt sideways. "How do you know my mother's name?"

"The same way I know everything about you, Lance Seraphis." The mugger's voice dropped to a whisper, intimate as a lover's secret. "The same way I knew exactly where to find you tonight."

Pain exploded in Lance's chest before he could process the movement. The blade pierced through fabric and flesh with sickening ease, hot and sharp, stealing the breath from his lungs. He staggered backward, his precious book slipping from nerveless fingers to land with a soft, final thud on the rain-slicked pavement.

As he clutched at his chest, trying to stem the crimson tide with trembling fingers, the mugger leaned in close, his breath fetid and warm against Lance's ear. As Lance fell, the mugger knelt beside him, his words a poisoned lullaby. "The gods are watching, boy. They always have been. Say hello to your mother for me. The Dark ones bare you farewell"

Lance's world tilted on its axis. His mother's name. Charlotte Seraphis. The woman he thought had died in an accident twelve years ago. Realization crashed over him with a force far greater than physical agony. This wasn't random. This was orchestrated. The man who stood before him wasn't just a mugger—he was an executioner. His mother's murderer.

Why? The question screamed in his mind, but his lips could no longer form the words.

The assailant yanked his bag free from his weakening grasp, but Lance barely registered the loss. His vision blurred, the edges darkening like ancient parchment burning to ash. The cacophony of the city—the distant symphony of traffic, the electric hum of streetlights—faded into a meaningless drone.

Lance collapses, vision narrowing, breath ragged.

The heartbeat sounds—slow, fading.

The mugger crouched beside him, his breath warm and rotten against Lance’s ear.

"The gods are watching, boy. They always have been. Say hello to your mother for me."

Beat—then a whisper, barely audible.

"The Dark Ones bear you farewell."

Silence. Then a deep, distorted hum—like something awakening.

Lance's body spasmed. Sharp inhale—gasp of pain. Rage, thick and searing, surged through him. Not fear. Not despair. Rage.

His mother. His life. His death. It was never random.

The heartbeat returns—louder, faster.

The world blurred, but before darkness claimed him entirely, something else did. A voice.

Cold. Commanding. Ancient.

"You are not done yet, Lance Seraphis."